Re-incarnation was the only reason I flirted with the angel of death. Like an apparition he appeared and disappeared and abducted my curiousity.He was everywhere I went. It was like me and paparazzi. He had his eye on the prize. At least from my side, that’s how it seemed. Had I looked through his end I would have seen his finger on the trigger and the words “bull’s-eye” yearning to escape from his sweet tongue.

He had me at first sarcasm. His accent was a concoction of all accents sexy and flirty. Dangerous, dark, far from dandy. My guardian angel should have been somewhere nearby; but then again she drove a Vitz: symbols of humility. She was probably stuck in traffic, letting all the evil overlap as she sat and waited her turn.

He drove something black and sleek. So I flirted with him shamelessly, knowingly, openly. I made a deal with him after months of negotiation. Finally we agreed. It was utterly stupid of me not to realize that he only took life; not give it. As he drew my last breath I realized but it was too late. I lingered in purgatory for a while with a myriad of souls; some sagacious, some irate, most confused as was mine.

The first time I heard the word re-incarnation I pictured a field of purple, sweet smelling flowers. I would be the scent that drew bees and humans alike. I would be present at weddings and morbid as it may seem at funerals. The phase of my life where I was invisible would be over, everyone would love me .I would be handled gently. It would not be florists jargon to know that I bruised easily, it would be common knowledge. Money would change hands for me and not in dowry. I would bloom or a living, light up dull rooms for a living. Sit in one of those expensive vases and just look pretty.

But see I forgot that flowers, pretty as they are, too wither. I forgot how unattractive they become when the sap dries up and the petals begin to fall like a balding being. Then the vase owner can’t have you anymore. You find yourself thrown out next to the ancestors that left the field ahead of you rotting in a heap of self. You wonder if they knew that this would happen that they will one day be one with the dirty ground.

Still I was a flower; an entire field of them. I blew in the wind and caught all the rays of sun that I possibly could. In time I begun to wither, age caught up with me.Athritis didn’t allow me to blow in the wind as much as I could have wanted to. I missed my soul, the soul I had traded in the name of re-incarnation. The soul that the angel of death never fooled me to give up but did so willingly just to be a pretty flower. The flower that was stole from me unrightfully. The flower that I had hoped to hand over in love, uncovered. So I wither here, I don’t think of the end. I reminisce on the beginning; of budding and blooming. I would do it again I only to hold my chastity.

© adikinyi bwire